Loved by a Violence
by HPinGLAM
Summary: Slash warning. Its what he wants, no what he needs. He needs this from me and I've been able to play along. More than that my thoughts have begun to match my action.


He's like a drug. I'm doing something very very wrong but it just feels to right to have to stop. Sometimes though, I think I'm holding on to something, someone who isn't really there. He's flesh and bone like any of us. When I cut him he bleeds for me. If Percy were to come to take his pound of flesh he would die, wouldn't he? Because it's not the tools we use that hurt people, people hurt people. One tool is just like another, but never a knife. Ron never allows me to use a knife. We use other things like broken glass or razor blades but never knives.

It started out so innocently and turned violent so quickly. A kiss to a beating to a cut to a scar to our bruised bodied cold and in the dark. What's so wrong with him? I didn't like it at first but I grew to like it, to enjoy inflicting pain like he enjoyed receiving it. He said I was his trial, that I was a fair judge and served out fair sentences. He said that I was only giving him what he rightly deserved. Nothing is wrong with us, this is the way we are and if anyone sees a problem with it then fuck them. This is what works for us and no one has the right to question it.

He killed Oliver as sure as he stands before me. I live in the silent fear that it will happen again. The tremors the delusions the loss of reality he suffered that night, that he'll turn on me and punish me. He will be my justice for helping him. I do it because underneath it all he's still Ron. I still care for him. I have always loved him and love is more powerful than even death. Oliver's death will not taint our life. It's twisted and we're wrong, oh we're so wrong. I love him for the sum of what he is and not his individual experiences. I can ignore the fact he's dangerous, I can ignore that because when I look at him I don't see the murder of Oliver Wood, I see Ronald Weasley.

He's at least ten centimeters taller then me now. It doesn't matter how much smaller then him I am though. What matters is who is in control. He has most certainly passed the control completely into my slender hands. He lets me completely dominate him, he lets me. I can't force him to do anything but that he trusts me, loves me, cherishes me enough to give me total control. And I trust, love, cherish him so that he will never regret his decision.

"Harry, could you stay. Afterwards I mean?"

It's a request because he doesn't allow himself to do anything but request things from me. The decision is mine and mine alone. The decision I make is the sum of my experience. With one motion he's against the wall of his tiny Muggle apartment. They could find him if they really wanted to. They could rip his life away and send him to the depths of Azkaban for the Dementors to be his lovers. But then again I'm doing a hell of a job myself. The ministry couldn't manage to catch him if I handed him over in chains. I could, I could give him up and this would all be over, he would feel less pain with them than he feels now with me. I press up against him, where he is tall and thin I am shorter and more muscular. He would never stand a chance against me and he doesn't want to. Everything I give him he wants, and I give him the world.

Blood trickles down from the side of his lip and I lick around it with my tongue cleaning the wound I only moments ago created. I wouldn't have wanted it this way but he always has. It should be obvious I'm the follower here. He's leading me around by my invisible leash tugging me into him and not allowing for escape. I force him to his knees and bind his hands but I'm tethered to him forever. The naked leading the blind, I know I'm selfish I'm unkind. Amazing how Muggle songs just make it into your brain and you can't force them out, not any more than I can force him out.

Perched on his knees before me wrists bound and pleading I couldn't deny him a thing. He's like an angel born without wings and not caring if he ever found them or not. We are like some genetic defect of a higher power, half aborted infants screaming for an apathetic mother. We have been left to bleed for the society that abandoned us, that would mock, scorn and exclude us. For their collective sins we will die for them while our pulse and breath continues on. No, they have not made us into the monsters we have become, but they are monsters as well. It's so hypocritical.

I undo the buttons of my trousers just enough to free myself and push into his awaiting mouth. There hasn't been a time we've both been fully naked in front of each other. Strange how on perversion replaces another. We only reveal enough of ourselves to allow for release. If I were to bare my whole soul for him our glass house would come crashing down from the pebble that cracked it.

Without noticing it at first my eyes begin to water. I'm not crying, my eyes are just watering and the tear traces a pattern down my cheek to my chin and by the time it reaches it's destination there is nothing left of it and its trail is quickly evaporating from my flesh. Then I do begin to cry, one sob followed by the next. His brown eyes flicker upwards and he stops his task though he still covers me. It disgusts me and I pull away fastening up my pants though it physically hurts to do so, a sliver string of saliva breaking in the air. I pull him upwards and untie his hands taking them into my own and I press my lips to his letting my sobs escape into his mouth. Everything hurts so much.

Its what he wants, no what he needs. He needs this from me and I've been able to play along. More than that my thoughts have begun to match my actions. The gap of cognitive dissonance is rapidly narrowing, I need this as much as he does. But in the end we are humans as well. Humans able to control our desires and delay gratification for something better in the long term. Then again, what more do I have to look forward to? We've already come this far. We've done more than cross the line, we've fucking erased it.

Lying next to him on the wooden floor of the apartment I draw little patterns in the collecting dust with my fingers and he wipes his palm over them until the dust and my images are gone. It gives me a sense of comfort that he is the one painting over my dreams. I draw a little house and he burns it to the ground. I've never loved him more. Dreams written in the dust. This is all we'll ever have. There isn't anything either one of us wants more.

There is a little tug at my invisible leash and we set to finish what we have begun. We set out to set the world aflame and take the knife to our mother's breast. He whimpers a bit as I take him, only enough exposed to allow for release. I no longer think about what he feels and only focus on how tight and perfect he feels around me. I tell myself that, but I'm not cold and we both know that. This is what we need, and you take what you need to survive. I do this for him because I adore him. I do this because there is nothing but him. Suddenly it becomes so clear why Oliver Wood is dead. But when I look at Ronald Weasley, all I see is him, a future written in dust.


End file.
